


Bring Me My Arrows of Desire

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amulet Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's search for God seems to take him further and further from what he seeks -- sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Me My Arrows of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> So, the title and the line quoted in the first scene are both from Jerusalem, by William Blake. The poem sort of inspired this fic, but it totally got away from me and morphed from being a long, twisting story about communication and loss of faith to simply being amulet porn. It's been sitting on my hard-drive glaring at me for weeks, so I'm just going to post it, un-beta'd and weird as it is, and hope you enjoy!

Castiel searches for God first in Jerusalem, although he holds little hope of finding him there. However, it feels like the right place to start, and of course there's that nagging voice – the one that has of late been far more present than in the last several millennia, the one that sounds a little bit like Dean – that whispers to him that it would be rather embarrassing if he searched everywhere else first and then it turned out that God had been there the whole time. 

“You'd sure have an egg on your face, Castiel,” says the voice, and Castiel thinks long and hard about why that could be and, more importantly, where his brain learnt that turn of phrase without his knowledge. 

God is not in Jerusalem, of course. The amulet that Castiel carries stays cool against his fingers, where he twirls it slowly between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. The air is dry and warm around him as he stands still and silent, leaning against the wall of the Central Bus Station. He doesn't usually notice the difference particularly between hot and cold, but dry, he feels; and wet. He feels the way the air crowds in on him now, making his borrowed skin feel scratchy and parched. 

He waits a few more minutes, pressing the amulet briefly to his lips in thought, feeling the cool press of the metal. He pushes off the wall, and stretches his unseen wings. He tells himself he's not disappointed – that there's a whole world, a whole universe of creation left to search – and departs. 

His next immediate step is in Bedfordshire, his feet landing imperceptibly on dewy morning grass. He can see the town of Biggleswade in the distance, but where he stands there is nothing but squat, stumpy trees and, again, grass. Words drift through his mind, the amulet now pressed heavy and as chilled as the brisk air around him in his palm. 

_And was the holy Lamb of God/ On England's pleasant pastures seen?_

There is drizzle falling, dulling the vibrant green of the rolling hillsides, and this Castiel feels. It clings to his hair, making it stick wetly to his temples. Drops of water run down his nose and chin, dropping to the grass. The rain makes his coat heavier around him, and makes the amulet slippery in his hand. 

He is alone on the hilltop, and he feels the abandonment seep into his clothes, his skin – and past that, into his form, his self. He feels waterlogged and heavy, and the amulet feels like a cold, dead weight in his fingers, so he drops it into the grass. 

It twinkles there, both with the dull shine of the metal and the glint of rain, and he has no intention of leaving it lying in the grass and mud, but he doesn't have it in him to pick it up yet, either. So he sits down on the wet earth, and shivers with discomfort at the feeling of dampness seeking it's way inside of him. He prays to his father to answer him, but receives no reply. 

***

Sam is sleeping in the bed closest to the window. His blankets are pulled up over his head to block out the harsh artificial light of the street-lamp outside, which the flimsy blinds do little to contain. Castiel looks down at him for several moments, watching the rise and fall of the blankets and listening to the muffled, snuffling snores until he is satisfied that the younger brother is fast asleep. 

Dean is sitting on the corner of his own bed, wearing the rumpled t-shirt and jeans he's been sleeping in. His eyes are blinking heavily, sticky with the weight of interrupted sleep. 

“Cas?” he asks, and Castiel turns to look at him, before striding over in two short paces and dropping to the ground in front of Dean, his hands coming out to rest on denim-clad knees. 

“We shall have to be quiet,” Castiel says, looking imploringly up him. Dean's eyes widen slightly, but other than that he doesn't react until Castiel shuffles forward to rest his head against Dean's thigh, one hand sliding up the seam of his jeans uncomfortably slowly. 

“Cas, you don't mean you--” Dean starts, his voice a rasping whisper, but it cuts off when Castiel's travelling hand reaches it's destination, his fingers splaying to touch Dean lightly through his trousers. It's too gentle a touch to be arousing, almost too gentle to be felt, but that doesn't stop Dean from sucking in a breath, more in surprise than anything else. 

“I mean to distract us both,” Castiel replies, his thumb and forefinger pulling down the fly of Dean's trousers. The amulet sits heavy in his own coat pocket, and Castiel doesn't like it there. It is making hollow sounds of metal against metal, clinking against something that Jimmy had left in there a long time ago now – coins, Castiel supposes, although he's never really thought to check. 

He pulls Dean's cock out from his boxer shorts, and strokes him slowly to hardness. Dean looks down at the angel touching him, watches the way the head of his penis slides in and out of Castiel's grip, disappearing briefly, then poking back through his fist, a small drop of moisture budding at the tip. 

Castiel watches the minute changes in Dean's expression, the way he darts his tongue out to dampen his slightly parted lips, the way his eyes are brimming with something between wonder, reverence and uncertainty. Castiel wonders at the hesitancy he sees in Dean's face; It was he after all who had first expressed desire for this to Castiel, in his own gruff and avoidant way. 

“Is this okay?” Castiel asks, pausing the smooth slide of his hand and searching Dean's face. 

“Yeah,” Dean replies, the word coming out as little more than a croak. He swallows, and clears his throat. “Hell yeah.”

Castiel inclines his head once in a nod, the movement continuing fluidly as he brings his head down to lick over the tip of Dean's penis. He can hear a stifled moan above him, and decides to throw himself into this act with all the fervency he has always thrown into every act. He slides his lips down Dean's erection, and slides his hand that is not wrapped around the base of the hunter's cock into his own pocket, wrapping it around the amulet that sits there, amongst the coins and crumpled receipts and lint. 

The amulet warms in Castiel's palm the longer he grips tightly to it, almost unconsciously squeezing with all his force as he focusses on taking Dean deeper into his mouth, drawing his pleasure from him, tasting it bitter on his tongue. 

After Dean has come down, he draws Castiel up onto the bed, still making sure every movement is as silent as possible so as not to wake Sam, and turns him around so that the angel is sitting upright between Dean's spread legs, his back to the hunter's chest. Dean whispers words sweeter than what Castiel would have expected from him, and undoes Castiel's trousers, stroking at the hardness Castiel hadn't really noticed he'd acquired – although now he realises it, his desire is almost burning, as hot as scalding iron. 

Dean's free hand traces it's way over Castiel's body; He works his way past buttons and to the skin under Castiel's shirt. He traces the lines of Castiel's neck and jaw, and then almost soothingly runs his hand down Castiel's arm, following into Castiel's pocket and prizing at the fist he finds clenched there. 

“What you got there?” he whispers, and Castiel blinks as a bolt of pleasure shoots to his cock at the same moment that Dean worms the amulet from his grasp. Dean doesn't need to look at the medallion to know what it is – he knows the feel of it too well. He slides it out of Castiel's pocket, and unthinkingly returns to his exploration of the angel's upper body, ghosting his hand back over Castiel's chest, the amulet – warm with body heat – travelling along with it, tickling against his skin. 

Without knowing it, Castiel becomes louder as he approaches climax, small gasps and choked cries being startled from his throat as the pleasure builds at an alarming rate. Dean whispers to him to “Hush, for Christ's sake, Sam'll hear.” However, Castiel barely registers the words and his groans only grow louder, so Dean moves his hand from where it's teasing at one of Castiel's nipples, and presses it instead over his mouth, the amulet poking against the angel's lips. 

Lost in desire, Castiel opens his mouth and sucks the medallion in, tasting the tang of metal against his tongue. Between now silenced moans, his kisses Dean's palm, and tongues at the contours of the amulet as he comes. 

***

Castiel is standing on the outskirts of a small village not far from Dijon when Dean calls. It is snowing where he is in the mountains, and between the roar of the wind that is kicking up around him and the crackling line, Castiel can barely hear Dean's voice giving him a location. 

“Room four...?” he repeats back, and listens to the grating sounds of bad reception against his ear with a scowl. After a moment Dean's voice manages to make it's way through the static, sounding strangely inhuman and distorted. 

“Nineteen,” he says. “Four nine--” more static, but Castiel gets the message and hangs up in frustration. 

Before departing, he touches his hand to his chest, over where the amulet sits against his skin. It's the first time he's worn it around his neck rather than buried deep in his pocket, and he feels guilty. He pulls it out of his collar and off over his head, looking at it almost accusingly for a long moment as he holds the medallion between his fingers, level with his face so that the leather chord hangs loosely, flicking back and forward in the breeze. 

It remains cool – it hasn't warmed once, save for against Castiel's tongue as Dean held it in place. 

With a flutter of wings, Castiel departs. God is not here, and Dean is waiting. 

***


End file.
